Tom Holt

by 4 Ye Gods!

  'Now you listen to me,' Mars said. 'I'm saying it does, and I'm the one who ouch!'

  About ten seconds later, Jason helped Mars up again, handed him his spear, bent the chin-guard of his helmet back into shape, dusted off his cloak for him and apologised.

  'Now get lost,' he added.

  Mars, his divine head still swimming, tried one last protest. 'Look,' he started to say.

  '... or I'll have to hit you again.'

  'Right,' said Mars. 'Nice to have met you. Classy left hook you've got there, if you don't mind me saying so.'

  Jason's face lit up. 'You really think so?'

  Mars humped his throbbing jaw into a grin. 'You bet,' he said.

  By a strange coincidence that would have had the Possibility Police round in ten minutes flat with a forged warrant had they known about it, Mrs. Derry was at that very moment removing Jason's Mars posters from the walls of his bedroom.

  Part of being a mother is realising that one of these days, the fledgling is going to leave the nest for good. The sensible mother realises that this is perfectly natural, and also a heaven sent opportunity to give parts of the nest their first thorough cleaning for eighteen years.

  She was just wiping away a tear while trying to scrape off a chunk of petrified Blue-Tack with the handle of a spoon when the doorbell rang. She muttered something, climbed down off the chair and went to see who it was.

  'Hello, Phyllis.'

  Mrs. Derry gave Jupiter that particular look that only female mortals can manage. It is a masterpiece of nonverbal communication, and says (inter alia) that you are not welcome to come into my house because of what has happened between us in the past, because you never even sent flowers or a postcard, and most of all because the kitchen floor hasn't been cleaned for a week. It is to Jupiter's credit that he managed to field it without falling over; but the gods, as Homer reminds us, are stronger by far than bread-eating mortals.

  'It's about Jason,' Jupiter said. 'Can I come in?'

  Mrs. Derry hesitated, even then. Because of Jupiter, her married life had been a cross between a Feydeau farce and one of Landseer's more exuberant productions; there was also the matter of the unwashed breakfast things. But in the end she nodded, and Jupiter walked past her into the house. As he did so, small clumps of incredibly sweet-smelling flowers sprang up where his divine feet left their print in the soft pile of the carpet. This is a common manifestation of a divine presence and Mrs. Derry could hardly fail to notice it.

  'Oh for heaven's sake!' she said. 'Wait there.'

  She darted off and returned with a bundle of old newspapers, which she arranged by way of a footpath leading from the hallway to the lounge. Having placed the final page on the seat of the sofa, she sniffed, sat down in the armchair and folded her arms disapprovingly.

  'Well?' she said.

  'Yetch,' said Pluto, in fact. He had been reduced to drying his hands on his handkerchief, an operation which always made him feel seedy. Having put the now damp hanky away, he looked in the mirror, adjusted his tie and set out once again to find Jason Derry.

  This time, he was successful, probably because Jason was now looking for him.

  'Hold it right there!' said the son of Jupiter, 'or you'll taste the edge of my sword. You got that?'

  Pluto turned round slowly and drew himself up to his full height.

  'I'll trouble you,' he said, 'not to take that tone with me. After all, I am your uncle, so let's have a little respect, if you please.'

  Jason's brows knotted. 'Respect?' he queried.

  'Respect. And for pity's sake put that sword down, before you break something.'

  Without quite knowing why, Jason did as he was told. Pluto nodded severely.

  'That's better,' he said. 'And take your hands out of your pockets.'

  The explanation is, of course, simple for non-Heroes to grasp. Having throughout his career been confronted with a succession of opponents who were bigger, stronger, faster, nastier or better equipped with limbs than he was, Jason had never developed the necessary techniques for dealing with people who were smaller, weaker or better mannered than himself. He had killed dragons, but he'd never had to jump a queue of pensioners in a post office.

  'You are Pluto,' he asked.

  'Certainly,' said the god stiffly. 'And I presume you're the Derry boy.'

  Well, yes.'

  Pluto gave him a look, and Jason suddenly became painfully aware that his fingernails weren't as clean as they might be.

  'In that case,' Pluto continued, 'I really must insist that you return my dog and stop making a nuisance of yourself.'

  Jason shifted guiltily. 'Have I been?' he mumbled.

  'Indeed you have,' said Pluto. 'Wandering off, encouraging the dissidents, disturbing the guests, not to mention being extremely rude to a god you haven't even been introduced to. You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourself.'

  Suddenly and for the first time, Jason was; and it was a distinctly unpleasant feeling. Not only do Heroes not know the meaning of fear, they are also generally immune to embarrassment; otherwise, they simply couldn't do their job. You can't be expected to rush in where angels fear to tread if the opposition can make you feel six inches tall simply by reminding you to wipe your feet.

  'The dog, please,' Pluto demanded. Cerberus looked up at Jason with six worried eyes, which Jason couldn't meet. Instead he made a vague Good-Dog-Go-To-Master movement with his head and then looked away.

  The dog bit him.

  Jason's first reaction was to retaliate. Although somewhat unfashionable these days, retaliation is a tried and tested human reaction to threatening and inconvenient events; and deep down, Jason Derry was a traditionalist. He had therefore raised his foot to give the dog a kick that would have propelled it back topside when it occurred to him that the dog might be trying to tell him something. Not that there aren't more civilised means of data communication these days than a full set of teeth in the calf of the leg; but when the audience is likely to be unresponsive, subtlety is likely to be counter-productive. Jason lowered his boot, confused.

  'I said,' said Pluto, 'give me the dog.'

  'No,' said Jason. (What he actually said was 'No...', but the three dots were silent, like the W in 'shipwright'.)

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'No,' Jason repeated. 'I don't think he wants to go with you.'

  Pluto frowned magisterially. 'That's hardly the point,' he said. 'Now, if you don't mind, my time is not without value.'

  This remark had an effect on Jason. 'Mine too,' he said. 'Push off.'

  'How dare you speak...'

  Jason grinned. For the first time in his life, he was beginning to wonder whether there might not be just as much fun in beating up small, weak, defenceless people as in beating up mighty demons. Probably not, but he would never know if he didn't try. 'I 'said push off,' he growled. The dog nodded his heads, wagged his tail and even managed to scratch one of his ears at the same time. Dogs have powers of balance that defy orthodox scientific explanation.

  Pluto, for his part, remembered that he was a god, and a high-rolling, time-served god at that. He drew himself up to his false height* and folded his arms grimly.

  'Impudent mortal...' he began to say. Then he became aware of an agonising pain in his left big toe, and looked down.

  'Ouch!' he said, and hopped up into the air. Jason pulled the sword clear of the deep incision he had just made, and laughed unkindly. A drop of ichor -- god's blood -- sparkled on the blade.

  'Now clear off out of it,' he said, 'or else you'll get this up your...'

  Pluto, now withdrawn to a relatively safe distance, scowled horribly and called on the Legions of the Damned to assist him. There are perks to being a god, and instant access to a large number of semi-divine heavies is one of them. 'Arrest that mortal!' Pluto cried melodramatically. From the shadows behind him, about ten or twelve muscular, well-armed figures stepped forward and advanced towards Jason, truncheons out.

  At the risk of s
poiling the impact of what follows and interrupting the narrative curve, a word of explanation would seem called for. Although at one time service in the divine cohorts was regarded as a supreme honour, ever since the evacuation of Olympus the gods have found themselves with a serious recruiting problem on their hands. The sad fact is that the pay is so much better in the private sector, and the prestige of being an instrument of divine justice comes a poor second to flexible working hours, a company chariot and a free uniform, usually with a dragon logo on it. As a result, the gods have lately taken

  *About fifteen feet six inches. Pluto's main fear was that one day he'd stick like it.

  to recruiting from those inhabitants of Betamax 76249708 who have inadvertently sailed off the edge of the world in the course of an ill-fated attempt to find a shorter sea route from Leningrad to Kiev. This has resulted in an overall lowering of staff quality. In fact it is rumoured that the entire divine army could only extract itself from the proverbial paper bag with the aid of massed air support and covering fire from offshore naval batteries.

  There was a blur, and not long afterwards a contingent of celestial men-at-arms picked themselves painfully off the ground, gathered up their severed limbs and limped away in search of something to stick them back on with.

  Jason lowered his sword. 'Push off,' he said.

  'You won't get away with this,' Pluto muttered. 'The mills of the gods grind slow but they grind exceeding small.'

  'And cracked pitchers,' said Jason, 'have big ears. Hop it.'

  Pluto is unusual among the gods in that he knows when he's beaten. But he had one last weapon in his armoury; and although he usually despised it as mere shallow mummery, there was nothing to be lost by using it. He shouted an arcane word, made a magic pass and snapped his fingers. At once he vanished, and was replaced by an apparition that Jason didn't manage to forget for a long time. Pluto changed himself into a skeleton.

  No ordinary skeleton, at that, but a grotesquely large gaudily decorated and extremely animated skeleton. The general effect was designed to convey an impression of extreme and irreversible death, coupled with an urgent desire to impose a similar condition on anything in the near vicinity, and it worked. There wasn't the smallest scrap of flesh anywhere to be seen, and the bones looked like malevolent ivory; ivory that has never really got over being separated from a perfectly good, comfortable elephant. As for the eyes, you could have defrosted pizzas with them.

  Jason, as has already been more than adequately recorded, didn't know the meaning of fear; but it is arguable that you don't need to know precisely what the word Fischhandler on a street sign means if directly under it you can see a shop with a slabful of dead cod in the window. He winced with his whole body and covered his eyes.

  Not so the dog. He took one look at the biggest collection of jumbo-sized, yummy-looking bones ever gathered in one place, uttered a threefold yelp of pure pleasure, and broke for lunch.

  In the newly-restored quiet of his study, Gelos was communicating with Prometheus. As usual, it wasn't easy --the thoughtwaves are horribly congested these days, and if you aren't careful you can end up getting a stray fax right between the ears -- but despite interruptions they were in the middle of a highly serious discussion.

  'And what about the boy?' thought Gels.

  'Don't worry about it,' replied Prometheus. 'It'll be the old, old story; boy meets eagle, boy loses eagle, boy finally gets eagle ...'

  'Supposing he isn't interested?' Gelos objected. 'I mean, he may think there's more to life and being a Hero than just...'

  'Pulling a bird?'

  'Well...'

  'Leave that to me,' thought Prometheus. 'Back to business. Has he got rid of those two clowns for you?'

  Gelos laughed, something he tried not to do if he could help it. 'Yes indeed,' he thought. 'Young Jason has learned quite a lot today, I fancy. About life, and disappointment, and coming to terms with the way things really are; and, of course, that when all is said and done the only really effective way to deal with people is to hit them. Oh yes, he's coming along nicely, for a youngster.'

  'Actually;' thought Prometheus, 'I didn't want to worry you with this, but Eagle says that a Certain Person has been to see a Certain Person, and...'

  Gelos frowned. Telepathy is hard enough to understand as it is without archness as well. 'What?'

  'J-U-P-I-T-E-R,' Prometheus spelt out in a mental whisper, 'has gone to see P-H-Y-L-L...'

  'All right, I think I see what you're getting at. Problems?'

  'Possibly,' Prometheus replied. 'You see, we've been concentrating so much on the fact that Jupit... that You Know Who is the boy's father that we may have neglected the other side of the equation.'

  'You think so?' queried Gelos. 'I'm sure she's a very nice lady, but...'

  'All I'm saying is,' thought Prometheus, 'oh hell, someone's coming. I'd better think you back later. Ciao.'

  A long shadow fell across Prometheus's face and a voice spoke somewhere above him.

  'Traitor,' said the voice.

  Prometheus twisted his neck round until he could see a pair of golden sandals with a PA monogram on them, which he knew stood for Phoebus Apollo. They were the relic of an ill-fated sponsorship deal between a major multi-national sportswear company and the most photogenic of the male Olympians -- ill-fated because Jupiter doesn't hold with his family appearing in full-page colour on the backs of the Sunday supplements and took his wrath out on the company in question by turning them all into lizards.

  'Hello, Pol,' Prometheus replied. 'I'd offer you a drink or something but I'm a bit tied up at the moment. Could you call back later?'

  'Traitor,' Apollo repeated; not from any great depth of feeling in the matter but because he was embarrassed and couldn't think of anything else to say. Strictly unofficially, and then only outside the range of Jupiter's mental radar net, he had always considered the treatment meted out to Prometheus to be not only unjust but injudicious. The Titan, unlike the rest of the gods, was clever -- wise, even --and it was surely only a matter of time before he pulled a stroke that would deal the divine prestige of the Olympians such a blow that thereafter they would be hard put to it getting work doing conjuring tricks for children's parties.

  'You think so?' enquired Prometheus, mildly.

  'Yes.'

  'Oh.' The Titan shrugged. 'I'm sorry about that, Pol. One does what one thinks is right, you know.'

  'I don't.'

  'Sorry,' said Prometheus, 'I forgot. You're a god, you don't have to worry about that sort of thing.'

  'Are you implying...'

  Prometheus chuckled. 'I never imply,, he said. 'Not any more. I occasionally implied a bit when I was younger, but at my age it takes me all my time to insinuate, let alone imply. Usually I just say things.'

  'Are you saying...'

  'I'm saying,' said Prometheus, 'that since you're a god and effectively beyond any form of retribution, you can do what you damn well like. Absolute power; is that right?'

  Apollo tried to look stern. 'Correct,' he said, and his eyes sparkled with pale blue fire. 'Absolute power.'

  'Then how come,' said Prometheus quietly, 'you can't afford a new chariot?'

  This took Apollo by surprise, as if he had sliced into a hard-boiled egg to find a baby chicken sitting in there looking at him. 'What?' he said.

  'You heard me,' Prometheus replied. 'I could hear the wheel-bearings squeaking from here. Also, from the sound of it, your suspension is completely shot, your axle is about as straight as a bent corkscrew, there's enough body putty in your wings to fill in the Cheddar Gorge and if your offside front shaft makes it through another five thousand miles you have my permission to use my head as a basketball. So?'

  'Well,' said Apollo, weakly, 'You can't get the parts these days.

  'So why not get a new one?' Prometheus answered. 'They tell me Vulcan does a very nice little two-seater, four-winged horsepower, ABS brakes, adjustable scythes on the wheels as standard, four thousand gold st
aters plus interest free credit.'

  Apollo frowned. 'Where am I likely to get that sort of money?' he said. With no worshippers and no sacrifices?'

  Prometheus made a mighty effort and nodded his head. 'Exactly,' he said. 'And whenever you try any little sideline, just for a bit of pin-money, the Old Fool puts a stop to it. You'll notice, by the way, that he never drives the same chariot two years running; and how many temples has he still got? Or Minerva? The last recorded sacrifice to Minerva took place in AD 512, but she isn't driving round in a Gamma reg Vulcan Popular with knackered brake-linings.

  'Look...'

  'Or Venus,' Prometheus went on pitilessly. 'What's it she's got now? Vulcan XR7 GTS with front-dove drive, isn't it? Or Neptune, with that big new Valhalla Donnerschlag - Vorsprung durch Zauber and all that. Trust Nep to be the one to have a flash foreign chariot. Or Mercury - zippy little Vulcan Elite Turbo with a sticker saying My Other Chariot's a Vulcan 696 on the rear sunguard. Or Diana...'

  'All right,' said Apollo, 'you've made your point.'

  'Maybe,' said Prometheus, 'and obviously you really don't care about such demeaning things as status. I'm impressed, honestly. If I was in your position and had to suffer the indignity of being burnt off at traffic lights by part-time river-gods in souped-up Vulcan Firebirds...'

  'All right,' said Apollo. 'Look...'

  '... with furry dice hanging from their rear mirrors...'

  'Look...'

  'Yes?'

  'I...' Apollo had forgotten what he was going to say. He scowled ferociously and scratched the back of his neck.

  'All I was trying to suggest,' Prometheus went on, 'is that you must be in it for the job satisfaction, not the material rewards. I'm right, aren't I?'

  'Well...'

  'I can understand that,' said Prometheus. 'You're a god's god, Pol, if you don't mind my saying so. Or you were, at any rate, before Jupiter decided to pack it all in and retire. Nice, is it, up there in the sun?'